Unequivocal Sacrifice
by garskira
Summary: AU Hector is captured by Achilles after their duel. Patroclus is not dead, but in pain and an unstable condition. Achilles decides to make an example out of his prisoner. Sacrifices are made by everyone as one brother struggles to rule a kingdom and one brother struggles to survive.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not have any rights to Troy. I do not own most of these characters. I do realize that _Troy_ was historically inaccurate, but I am basing my story on the inaccurate movie.

Warning: This is a slave fic. There will be language and torture (though not very graphic). Please do not read if uncomfortable with these things.

* * *

Blurry lights swarmed in front of Hector as the bright sun assaulted his eyes. He winced and tried to bring up down hand in an attempt to shield himself from the brilliant glare. When he realized that his arms were not responding, he attempted to clear his foggy mind. He felt sluggish, weak; his last memory was an unclear haze. Hector yanked his right arm down, causing a sharp wrench of his shoulder. The pain cleared the fog in a jolt and Hector's senses returned to him in an overwhelming onslaught. His weary brain registered multiple pains: the insistent pounding in his head, the burning of his knees, the ache of his back and shoulders, the tightness in his legs. He groaned and slowly twisted his head around, hoping to hear the soft pop in his neck that preceded relief.

As he turned, his cheek scraped against a rough object. Hector opened his eyes, curious to know what he was so close to and why his body was in such a poor condition. The intense light forced him to squeeze his eyes back shut, a glowing red seared under his eyelids. He opened his eyes again, slowly and cautiously. He squinted through long eyelashes to see a wooden post at his back, mounted on glittering sand. Hector blinked rapidly, not wanting to believe what his mind was registering. He was a prisoner.

He was kneeling on hot, burning sand with his ankles lashed together by rough, thin strips of rope. His calves were tied to his thighs. He couldn't feel his legs, much less move them. As he flexed his calves, he began to feel the tingling of blood flowing back into limbs. Hector let out a laughing gasp at the sensation. It made every slight shift of his body feel like his skin was on fire. No, his skin was buzzing, like strange things were dancing on it.

But it was the heat that was the hardest to handle. Apollo was not having any mercy on him. Hector was almost glad that he didn't have his heavy armor on. Instead, he was only wearing a dirty, small loincloth that draped over his thighs. The gray cloth was flecked with black dirt, contrasting with Hector's bronze, unblemished skin. The sun was unbearable, his brown hair hung limply down to his shoulders. He could feel his hair plastered onto his sweaty neck. Sweat. Beads of it rolled down his face, his chest. The salt stung his eyes, making Hector's eyes water.

Hector swallowed, trying to rid his throat of a thick, heavy layer of phlegm coating it. He looked around, dimly recognizing the Trojan beach that the Greeks had attacked on the first day of their conquest. He could see the sacked temple of Apollo up on its hill.

He pulled at his bonds, testing if there was any give to the tight ropes. There was none. Whoever had tied the knots had known what they were doing. Hector did his best to settle into a comfortable position; he knew that he would need his strength to get him through the day.

* * *

Achilles had been sitting by the bed for a few hours. His fingers ran through the soft hair that was splayed out over the pillows, combing out any stray tangles. He held onto the still hand, gently squeezing, watching the shallow, slow rise and fall of the thin chest. Patroclus. It hurt Achilles to see his beautiful, strong cousin on a bed, wasting away. The once tan, lithe body looked decrepit and weak. It was worrying; two days had passed since the horrible morning when he had woken up to the sight of his beloved friend hanging limply from Eudorus' arms and Patroclus had not stirred since then.

That morning. Whenever Achilles thought of that morning, he felt a hot rage and had a sudden urge to kill anything in sight.

* * *

Past:

He had woken up to find that his troops had gone into battle, he immediately knew the cause of the blatant disobedience. Patroclus had always wanted to go into battle. Whether it was because of a desire to please his cousin or whether it was because he wanted personal glory, Achilles did not know. That morning, the warrior had paced around his tent, muttering angrily to himself, thinking up severe punishments that could be dealt to to the impertinent, foolish boy.

When he heard sounds of clattering armor, he stopped his impatient grumblings and straightened his tunic. He stood tall and regal in the middle of the tent, crossing his arms, waiting for the stupid child to come in. Nobody stepped through the tent flap; Achilles stepped towards the small opening, about to duck under when he had heard a trembling, fearful, yet extremely urgent voice call out to him.

"My lord!"

Without waiting for an answer, Eudorus ran into the tent, almost colliding into Achilles. Eudorus was carrying a lifeless body. Blond hair. Black Myrmidon armor. It looked just like Achilles'. It was his. And Achilles was terrified.

He grabbed his baby cousin from Eudorus' proffered arms and set him gently down on his own giant bed.

He nearly ripped off his cousin's armor in his haste, tearing anything covering his brother's chest away and throwing it to the ground. He barely contained his shout of anger when he saw a long, deep cut crossing from his cousin's right armpit to his left shoulder. Blood had spread from the horrible wound, staining Patroclus' whole chest crimson. Achilles stared in shock at the gash until he heard a small moan come from Patroclus' lips, blood bubbling up at the corner of his mouth.

Without taking his eyes off of his cousin, Achilles spoke to Eudorus quietly, "Get me a needle and horse hair." Eudorus snapped to attention and ran out of the tent to do his master's bidding.

Achilles stitched up the injury with as much gentleness as he could muster, praying that Patroclus would be fine.

He stood up and walked outside, beckoning at Eudorus with his fingers to follow him. Once he was sure that he was far enough so that Patroclus wouldn't be bothered, he let out all the fear and rage that he had been holding inside of him since he had woken up.

He whirled around very quickly, taking his second-in-command by surprise and he grabbed Eudorus' long hair, yanking it down towards the ground. Eudorus cried out his shock and stumbled backwards, his legs moving wildly to maintain his balance. His attempt to stay upright was foiled by a sweep to the ankle, sending the man falling hard onto the sand.

"Damn you! You traitorous son of a bitch!" Achilles screamed at the coughing, gasping man, his voice cracking, "Fuck you!" He drew his leg back and slammed his foot into the prone soldier's stomach, causing another fit of coughs. Instinctively, Eudorus drew his legs in and curled into a fetal position in a primal attempt to protect himself.

Achilles rolled Eudorus onto his back with his heel and started pressing down on his neck. The helpless man only lay there, in complete submission to the judgement of his master. Achilles, having finally reined in his feelings, said quietly, "Give me one reason." Underneath those four gentle words simmered a storm of wrathful thoughts and inclinations. Eudorus looked up at his lord with tearing eyes and tried to swallow. Achilles could feel his Adam's apple bob as much as it could through his thin leather sandal. He could feel the small but intense tremblings that racked Eudorus' whole body and, staring at his most loyal friend's fearful, pleading eyes, he knew that he couldn't hurt him.

* * *

Past:

In the few seconds that had passed, all of the Myrmidons had gathered around their leader. As one they had went on bended knee, bowing their heads in obeisance, waiting for Achilles to acknowledge any one of them. He nodded towards a young man skilled in archery named Agathon who pleaded, "Please, my lord. He didn't know. We thought he was you. He moved, talked, fought like you. Spare his life, please!" Agathon looked up in hope but was only met with cold silence and a hard expression on Achilles' face.

"Sire, I'll stay with Lord Patroclus until he's better! I'll-" Agathon broke off in dismay. He wasn't sure that anything would be able to dissuade Achilles from executing Eudorus. While Agathon's and the rest of the Myrmidons' loyalty lay with Achilles first, they all had a deep bond with his commander. Eudorus was like a father to the rest of them. He offered comfort and support to those who needed it. He was a fearless leader who cared for every single one of his men and while Achilles was the shining, bright roof, Eudorus was the hidden pillars that held everything up and together. Without him, the house would fall. It would fall hard and fast.

"What would you require me to do?" He cried out in desperation, "My lord, please, I would do-"

Agathon was cut off by Achilles' upturned hand and he breathed a sigh of relief as Achilles stopped putting his weight on Eudorus' neck. Achilles took a step back and sat down heavily on the sand. He put his head in his hands and began to cry. Gut-wrenching, agonizing sobs. The men rose from their knees, looking at each other anxiously. Agathon had never seen the invulnerable hero show his emotions so openly. It scared him. It scared him that Achilles couldn't control himself; the man had always been so strong, never wavering or unsure of himself, never showing any weaknesses. And here he was. Breaking down.

* * *

Achilles was lost in his past until - "My lord?" A tentative voice called through the tent flap. Eudorus poked his head in and, at Achilles' beckoning, stepped into the spacious quarters. "My lord, your prisoner has awakened," Eudorus shuffled his feet around, staring at the bright woven rug he was standing on, wondering how he would phrase what he was going to say next. He wasn't even sure he should say. His master was not known for being merciful and would not take kindly to being second-guessed. He hurried on before he lost his courage. "Please do not take offense, my lord, but..."

Eudorus trailed off hesitantly, drawing Achilles' full attention. He looked at his faithful general questioningly. Achilles inclined his head, gesturing for Eudorus to continue.

"Is it truly wise to hold a prince of Troy hostage? Why didn't you just kill him?" In truth, Eudorus was worried. Prince Hector was known for his cunning and strength. The close battle with Achilles had only reaffirmed Eudorus' fears. The prince showed bravery and astounding perseverance and resourcefulness. Eudorus didn't doubt that the Trojan would be able to slip his bonds and escape. He worried for his fellow Myrmidons, for his brothers.

Achilles seemed to read his mind, "Do not worry, my friend. The Trojan has no way to harm us. I will make sure of it. And as for my decisions," he paused to glower at the older man, "They are my decisions and mine alone. I would thank you, Eudorus, to not meddle in my affairs."

The suitably chastened soldier stood aside to let Achilles duck under the tent's opening. As the warrior stalked off, Eudorus took a moment to study him. His bright, blond hair shone in the light. Like a lion, Eudorus mused. No, his master is more like a tiger. For a lion is slow to act while the tiger is relaxed but quick to spring. The tiger relies more on strategic bouts while the lion depends on brute, violent force. Keen, insightful eyes and a menacing presence that makes others cower. Yes, he thought, I'm so proud to serve such a king.

* * *

Hector snapped awake once he heard the soft tread of bare feet approaching. He looked defiantly at the figure that was blocking the sun. A young, handsome soldier wearing a light blue tunic stood in front of him. Hector recognized the golden embroidery spanning the rich fabric. A Myrmidon. Hector knew plenty about them. Brutal and cunning in their fighting and strategy, they fought for no country. They only used their skills to further their personal name and riches. Their only allegiance was to a crazed, glory-seeking madman who had no sense of honor or decency.

He glared up at the boy and began struggling against his bonds. It was bound to be futile, but Hector was determined not to appear like a weakling. He bucked up with all his strength, yanking his wrists forward as hard as he could. But all intent to fight back vanished when the boy squatted and swung up a dagger to meet Hector's vulnerable, bare neck. A wave of fear washed over him and Hector couldn't breathe. He closed his eyes and pushed his panic away.

The soldier reached behind his back, making Hector wonder what was in store for him. Torture? Probably. Humiliation? Definitely. As if he wasn't humiliated enough. When a small water flask appeared, Hector almost let loose a moan. His throat was burning with need. Every breath coated his mouth with layer of sand. The swirling dust in the air went into his nose with every inhale. Hector stared past the small leather flask and focused his attention on memorizing every detail of a small dune up ahead. Hopefully, he could ignore the temptation, the teasing gift.

So his surprise was great when the man put the mouth of the container to Hector's lips. He was suspicious, questioning what was in the container that the soldier would give to a worthless prisoner. But only pure, slightly warm water trickled into his mouth. He suppressed his desire to spit the liquid back into his captor's face because he knew that he needed it to avoid dehydration. He also acknowledged that angering his enemy while helpless was not the most intelligent thing to do.

Hector desperately sucked at the lip of the bottle, straining his neck towards the man, trying to drain every drop in the leather, not knowing when he would get another chance to drink. After a few deep gulps, the container was removed, leaving him panting for air. The soldier took a small cloth and poured water over it. Hector watched several droplets fall, forming a small puddle which sank into the golden sand; the only proof of its existence was a tiny darkened spot.

He looked up only to shrink back as the cloth was drawn closer and closer to his face. The touch of fabric felt cool and refreshing as it was wiped over his face roughly. A sticky layer of sweat and grime came off to Hector's great relief. His task completed, the man stood up fluidly and walked off.

Hector knew that the soldier did it all out of kindness.

"Thank you," he croaked at the soldier's retreating back. The soldier didn't even look back.

* * *

I'm going to try to update as soon as possible. I'm going for at least once a week. So, wish me luck on that! This is the first time that I've actually posted anything I've written, so that's exciting. Yay! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Paris lifted his head and looked into the waves. He scowled when he smelled the stench of burning flesh coming from the beach. The Greeks were burning their dead in large piles, sending black, foul smoke spiraling into the heavens. He cursed the Greeks. He hoped - no, he knew - that all of them would head straight down to Tartarus, lower than the realm of Hades, to be tormented forever.

Paris had been scouting the Greek camp for hours now and he was sure he knew the basic routes of the patrols and the schedule of the watches. Hiding on the crest of the sand dune, concealed behind a small shrub, he watched the small figures mill around the tents.

Right after the disastrous duel outside of Trojan walls, Paris had saddled his horse and rode towards the Greeks, following the light imprints Achilles' chariot had left on the ground. He didn't know if his father even knew he was gone. And Helen. Beautiful Helen. Paris prayed that she didn't think he had abandoned her. _I have a chance to fix things. To make things better. To ease my father's mind. To save my brother. To do something that I can be proud of. A son that a king might be proud of. _

He cringed at the memory of his fight with Menelaus. His cowardice had shamed his family, had shamed Troy; the look on his father's face was pure disappointment. Then on, every word spoken to Paris was cold and unfeeling. His father no longer held any expectations for the young prince. Hector had been the only one to try to comfort him.

* * *

Right after the battle, Paris had slunk off to his chambers. Once he had quietly shut the gilded door, he threw off his armor. Chest-plate, greaves, scabbard, everything was tossed carelessly to the cool, stone floor. He curled into his bed, not caring that his hair was matted with sand, knowing he was covered with grit and dried blood. He pulled the sheets over his head and watched a rust-colored shimmer go up in the air, lightly dusting the expensive silk with blood.

He laid there, desperately willing his body to relax and his mind to rest. Unfortunately, they wouldn't. _I can't even win a fight against my own body. Some warrior, _Paris thought bitterly. He continued to berate himself until he heard a light tap at his door.

The sounds of victory and celebration resonating from the feasting hall grew louder as the door opened, only to dim once more.

"Brother. And why are you not dancing and drinking?" Paris questioned, trying, and failing, to keep a neutral tone.

He felt his brother's weight settle on the mattress, tilting the bed to the left. Hector sighed, whether out of exasperation or sadness, Paris didn't know.

"Paris, why are you hiding in your room?"

"Don't mock me!" Paris cried out, clenching his fists, " You know perfectly well that I cannot face anyone. Not now." Paris barely managed to keep his tears from falling and his sobs from being heard. His voice wavered on the thin line separating sorrow and indignity.

"Why, Paris? Because you did not fight well? Because you could not best Menelaus? There is no shame in losing to a more skilled and experienced soldier."

"Do you know how many people died because I could not?"

Hector grabbed Paris' shoulders and pulled him close. "Look at me. Look!" Paris reluctantly, and with much difficulty, raised his head to stare into Hector's eyes. A strong, resolute gaze that held such compassion and love for the younger. "Do you think that the Greeks would honor their promise to leave? They would have stayed, even if you had killed Menelaus yourself. They are here to conquer Troy and kill anyone in their way. They are here for glory. That is what this whole war is. A miserable quest for glory by fools who do not know the meaning of the word. And as for our men, they are headed to the Fields, far better off than they were in Troy."

Hector stood up and opened the door again, peering into the courtyard. Paris followed him, curious about his brother's interest in the emptiness. His question was soon answered when three figures holding a large tub came closer. Two strong, muscled slaves, set apart by their bare torsos and feet, led by a pretty servant girl, struggled to balance the heavy container, filled to the brim with steaming water. Paris could hear her scolding the slaves for being so slow.

Hector had run forth to help the steaming slaves. The servant had protested, stating that he shouldn't be lowering himself to perform such menial labor. Hector laughed them off and grasped the edge; Paris could see the slaves' faces relax in relief as his brother's strong arms took the brunt of the weight.

They eased the tub through the door and set it as gently as possible against the wall. The slaves immediately backed away and stood near the doorway. Hector saw the growing anger on Paris' face and sought to console him, "Paris, I took the liberty of asking a bath to be drawn for you. You need to clean yourself if you wish to join the banquet."

"I have no wish to celebrate and no appetite for food."

The stony silence was broken by the girl, taking the opportunity to ask the princes if they needed anything else from her.

At the sound of the sweet voice, Paris turned to look at her. She was a beautiful young girl, her womanly curves beginning to show. Her round face was framed by small wisps of brown hair that had escaped from the hair gathered into a bun at the nape of her neck. Paris could not stop looking at the hem of her short tunic dress, could not stop thinking about what was underneath the flimsy cloth. Her full lips. Her eyes.

Eyes that only looked at Hector.

Hector turned to look at Paris questioningly and Paris saw the girl's lips drop and her eyes lose their sparkle as she regarded the blood-stained prince before she forced a fake smile. Before Paris could say a word, Hector said, "No, thank you. I think we can manage. You are dismissed."

The girl pouted, but moved away, beckoning the slaves to follow her. They bowed their heads in respect before departing.  
Paris didn't move, glaring at his older brother. Hector, with a teasing lilt to his voice said, "You do realize, Paris, that I could order you to wash up and come to celebrate."

Paris knew that Hector was joking, but the constant reminders of Hector's superiority were wearing his patience thin. Hector. The admired. The strong. The powerful. "Yes, my lord," Paris mocked, pretending that Hector's words did not sting at all.

He stripped off his clothing and stepped into the bath, letting out a gasp at the heat. He sunk into the water, the warmth enveloping him like a blanket. "Stop clanking around and join me."

Hector picked up the armor strewn across the floor and laid it carefully on a small bench. He pulled his robes over his head and folded it on Paris' bed. Ever the neat, disciplined commander. He took a washcloth and some soap and began to wipe Paris' back in methodical swipes. He admonished Paris softly to remember to clean and hang his equipment. Paris pretended to listen because he knew that if he didn't, Hector's small lesson would turn into a long lecture about the importance of keeping armor in good condition.

The water sloshed dangerously, close to overflowing, as Hector clambered in. He grabbed Paris, spinning him around so he could wash his dirty hair. Paris relaxed under the ministrations of Hector's strong fingers, running through his hair. He had slumped back against Hector's chest, his mind finally quieting as his brother muttered along to himself. And Paris felt safe. Safe enough to let his guard down. At peace with himself. Knowing that if there was to be trouble, he would be protected under the arms of his savior.

* * *

Paris had gone to the banquet. He did not remember much. There had been wine. A lot of it.

And now, all Paris could think about was how he had lied to his brother. How he never told him the truth about why he was so upset that day. It was not because he had lost to Menelaus. It was not because hundreds of Trojans had died.

He had crawled. Crawled on the ground like a dog begging his master for scraps. In a desperate scramble for his brother. In front of two armies. In front of his father. In front of Helen. To Hector. In that moment when he had fallen, all he could think about was how he didn't want to die. So he had run from death. Too cowardly to face the Underworld.

Humiliation and remorse overcame Paris and left a slimy, thick film in its wake. He tried to rid himself of his pain by physically shaking his head.

And now his brother, his savior needed saving. So Paris would go as far as it took to return the favor which had been given to him so many times.

He slowly moved around the Grecian camp, coming from the western ravine next to the temple. When he heard voices nearing, he stopped his progress to scurry behind a small, dried shrub. A group of four soldiers were bantering with each other. They paused and undid their belts, letting out loud sighs as they urinated onto the sand. Paris turned away in disgust, only to have his attention captured by one word: Hector.

"Do you think he's as good in bed as he is on the battlefield?"

"If he is, I can go beg Achilles for a turn. He can afford to share since he already has that angel from the temple."

"I'm not sure she's an angel anymore, not after spending a few nights with Achilles!"

Loud, raucous laughs erupted followed by some lewd noises and more laughter.

The one man who had stayed silent throughout the conversation suddenly spoke up, "I wouldn't recommend speaking about this in the earshot of any Myrmidon. They are like little bitches, following every command of Achilles. But they are vicious bitches. I think they would kill you."

"And Achilles," another man chimed in, "I've heard that he is the most ruthless man in Greece. He does not tolerate any disobedience. He kills everyone who dares to engage him, except for those who he wishes to enslave. But even they die by his hand eventually. If they grow too old to fuck or too boring to torture."

"Just a few days ago, some men tried have fun with the girl. Achilles fought them all off with only a stick. He killed over a dozen men but no one did anything about it. No one dares to raise a hand against Achilles."

"I heard that most soldiers run away when they see him headed in their direction."

They fell silent as their thoughts all turned to the same thing. The prisoner. "That poor bastard."

The man who had first voiced his concerns about their gossip shook his head and said, "No one deserves what is coming to that man. His tortures will be talked about throughout the ages. He is as good as a dead man."

"Well, now! Why do you hold any sympathy in your heart for the enemy! He's the damn leader of the Trojans! He deserves everything that is coming to him."

The jolliness of the group had long dissipated and left behind a somber mood. None of the men could muster up a happy thought after acknowledging the future pain of the Trojan prince and they walked back to camp as a silent troop.

Paris was going to save his brother. That night.

* * *

Thank you for reading! And thank you soso22 and Spiritblaze for reviewing. You guys have no idea what this means to me. I never knew that writing was so difficult. I seem to get writer's block every five minutes. Anyways, untill next time!


	3. Chapter 3

The barbaric Greeks loved their torment of the helpless. Hector had now learnt this first-hand. One bastard had thought it would be amusing to prod at the captive with a dull spear, too afraid to even step near a bound man. Others had soon joined in. Hector had stayed stoically silent while the bastards were having their fun. Once he got free, he would make sure that he gained the same amount of pleasure hurting them as they did him. Oh gods. Hector prayed that those thoughts were the results of the sun and his current situation. He had always hated torture. The infliction of unnecessary pain and death disgusted him. He hated going into war, knowing that many women would not be seeing their loved ones again. And he always feared that Andromache would be one of those grieving women.

Hector swiveled his head around to make sure no one was around. Seeing only the flickering of torches, he relaxed all of his tensed muscles. As they loosened, he gave a whimper. He hadn't known that sitting still for so long could hurt as much as a knife.

Now for his escape plan. There was a sharp splinter sticking out of the pole. It would require some shoulder-wrenching to reach and progress would be excruciatingly slow but Hector could think of no better option. He didn't even know if there were any other options. He started to reach up, feeling blindly for that small, elusive sliver when one hand grabbed his bound wrists and he heard a snapping sound. Damn, he hadn't even heard the man approaching. Then came the silken words of the one man who he hated the most.

"Trying to escape? Trust me, it won't be this easy." The bastard's tone just reeked of arrogance and satisfaction. He and all the other Greeks had probably spent the whole day gloating about how pathetic and weak the prince of Troy was. When I get free, I will crush all of them and they'll shake and cry at the sight of my army. They'll wish that they had never crawled out of their whore-of-a-mother's stomach. And then once I -

Hector's thoughts were interrupted by a brutal yank of his wrists, which had been untied from the post. He was pulled to his feet and his legs promptly gave out, making him fall back against the sand. He was dragged back up, his body tingling from the blood rushing everywhere. His head spun from the sudden movement and the stars above looked like they were whirling around him. He was pushed against the wood, and saw a dark hood nearing his face. Hector immediately balked, weakly thrashing against the arm holding him back. Shaking his head violently, he prevented Achilles from pulling the cloth over his head.

"Be still!" Achilles hissed. He punched the Trojan, making his head snap to the side. Then he grabbed Hector's tangled locks and slammed his head back on the pole. Hector, dazed and in pain, was in shock and could only watch as the sack was pulled over him, the drawstring tightening at his neck. Hector was yanked forward by his neck, the drawstring serving as a leash. A fucking leash! Like he was an animal! Hector fought back, trying to pull away and digging his heels into the sand. Despite his efforts, the sand gave way under his feet and he was dragged forth, struggling every step of the way.

The darkness, the constriction of the hood, the stifling, hot air, filled with the scent of metal. Achilles' punch had filled his mouth with blood; Hector had no choice but to hold the foul liquid in, not wanting to spit it out into the cloth confining his head.

But the most terrifying thing was not his inability to see, but the result of his blindness. He had to put his trust - no, not his trust, he could not trust his enemy. He had to hope and pray that Achilles would not mislead him. Though Hector would definitely not put it past him. He inched forward, each foot searching for safe ground.

Achilles grew tired of the slow progress and he yanked on the lead rope. Caught off guard, Hector sprawled out on the sand, bringing his hands up to stop his fall. He spat out the blood that he had so carefully held in, splattering the sack, making it hot and sticky. He knelt there on all fours. Hearing, feeling his rapid heartbeat.

He heard Achilles' mocking voice above him, "We don't have any time for this, my prince."

* * *

Achilles felt a rush of perverse pleasure at the sight of the great Prince Hector. Kneeling before him. Patroclus would have his revenge if he got better. No, not if, Achilles thought, when. When he gets better. When he can walk around and talk and fight. Still thinking of his cousin, he continued leading his prisoner to a small, hastily-erected tent in the middle of the Myrmidon camp. Eudorus said he would be better! That he could heal of his wounds. So why? Why is he not awake?

And Achilles prayed. To any gods who would hear him. He promised them sacrifices, blood, glory in their name, anything, if only they could heal Patroclus. Raising his eyes to the dark sky, he repented for all of his sins. He begged for forgiveness and for mercy.

The next thing he knew, he was falling. His head hurt and his dinner was about to come back into his mouth. He flipped around, only to see a foot coming down at his face. Regaining his senses, he rolled to the side and scrambled up. A blindfolded, bound prince stumbled towards him. "Fight me! Fight me fairly!" Hector cried, his voice piercing the still of the night.

Achilles gave a soft laugh even though he was furious. He stalked around Hector who was struggling with the knots around his neck, wary of his enemy, but even more desperate to see. Achilles kept circling around the man, enjoying the way he struggled against all odds to win. Futile. Achilles darted at Hector, dodging one fist, two fists, swung in vain. He barreled into the man, landing on top of him when they both fell to the ground. Hector laid there, gasping for air in shallow pants, too winded to fight back as Achilles pinned down his wrists over his head. Achilles ground his knees into Hector's thighs, eliciting a pained grunt from the prone man's lips. Stretched out and with nothing to push off of, Hector was immobile. Again.

"Get away from me!" Hector shouted, his voice muffled by the hood.

Achilles smirked, "And why would I do such a thing?"

"Damn you, you fucking Greek!"

Achilles' grin grew wider and he shook his head in mock disapproval. "Such language. Not befitting of a prince. Didn't your whore of a mother teach little prince any manners?" Hector lunged up, snarling at Achilles, jaws snapping like a wild animal. Achilles shushed him, "I wouldn't be so loud. Many men in this camp want your head. Mounted on a pike."

At that moment, Agathon ran out of Achilles' tent, sword drawn and battle-ready. He stopped at the sight of Achilles straddling the prisoner, which, Achilles conceded, was sure to be a surprising sight. One that could be taken in a completely different way. "What are you doing?" Achilles snapped.

Jerking his thumb back to the tent, Agathon replied, "I was taking care-" he paused very briefly to glance quickly at Hector and saw Achilles' glare, warning him to be very cautious of his next words, "-of your armor. Like I promised, my lord."

"Finish it quickly and get some rest."

"Do you need help moving him, my lord?"

"Actually, yes. Hobble him and get me some cloth," Achilles commanded. Agathon ran to do his bidding and they were easily able to drag the now silent man into the small enclosure. They hooked his wrists onto a nail beaten into the support beam. Achilles forced Hector onto his toes and tightened the bonds, leaving Hector's calves straining to support his weight. Agathon left, going back to Achilles' tent to watch over Patroclus.

Achilles lit a lamp; the small flame illuminating the darkness. Hector was throwing all of his weight down, trying to free himself. Achilles stepped in front of him and grabbed his arms, firmly holding him still. "Hector, Hector, Hector. What am I to do with you? You keep trying to escape. Why? I'll tell you why. Because you-" Achilles emphasized his speech with a poke to Hector's exposed chest but then he stopped in shock. Hector let out a soft whine, so soft that any other man might not have been able to hear it. Almost indiscernible. But Achilles... He was blessed by the gods.

He froze. This was the first time that he had heard such a vulnerable sound come from the ever-brave and strong Hector. It astounded him so much that he just stood there, gaping at the prince. Hector seemed to regret his moment of weakness and he resumed his fierce glaring. Achilles frowned and, ignoring a flinch from Hector, ran his hand over the place he just poked. He laid his palm against Hector's hot skin and pushed, putting more and more pressure until Hector shuddered and tried to back away, which he couldn't.

Achilles brought the lantern up and saw the light mottling of bruises that covered his chest. Bruises that would darken over night. He was infuriated and demanded to know what had happened. He took the gag out of Hector's mouth and repeated his question, "What happened today?"

Hector did nothing, made no response, only glared. Achilles lost his patience and shouted, "Tell me!" Hector spat in his face and smiled, a fake, grim smile. Spittle ran down Achilles' cheek, and he wiped it off. Then, losing all self-control, he proceeded to slap Hector across the face with his wet fingers, smearing it on Hector's face.

"I've had enough," Achilles growled, "Enjoy your night." His face twisted in an ugly scowl and he matched glare for glare. He shoved the cloth back into Hector's mouth and stomped out of the tent in a fit.

* * *

Hector swayed there. He had long given up on struggling against his bonds. His wrists were chafed and bloody from supporting his 190 pounds whenever his calves had given out. His shoulders were aching far worse than they had when he was kneeling at the post, a sharp pain that would not go away. His head lolled to the side. So tired. But he could not sleep. Any attempt to relax led to more pain in his arms. It was a horrible cycle, one that would never let up. Alternating between standing on his tip-toes to bring relief to his arms and dropping to give his trembling, cramping legs a break. And his throat. It was dry, so dry. More dry than it was in the cloth fibers seemed to suck every bit of moisture from his mouth. Every swallow hurt.

He tried to distract himself from the torment by counting numbers. Solving puzzles. Repeating stories. Imagining beautiful places of paradise. Remembering Andromache. But the agony. It brought him back to reality, to the truth of his situation. So he stopped. Then he started thinking about his night. So much humiliation.

And then there was that soldier. The one who had come out of Achilles' tent. The liar. The very good liar. He would have fooled any other man. But Hector... He was blessed by the gods. The very short hitch in his breath had told Hector that the soldier had not been cleaning armor. And Hector had no doubt that Achilles knew it as well. Whatever had been in Achilles' tent was important to him and not information to be shared with Hector.

The secrecy only peaked Hector's interest. A particularly strong cramp seized Hector's leg, the worst one so far that night. The pain was so intense; Hector squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his gag. His leg twitched sporadically. He couldn't do anything to help it. All he could do was dig his fingernails into the heel of his palm and wait until the cramp passed.

And so it continued.

He didn't notice the footsteps until they were right in front of him. He opened his eyes, but the inside of the tent was pitch black. He shrank back at the light caress of a soft hand at his face. "Hector."

* * *

Thanks for reading! So, yes there will be Hector!whump. Sorry. I'll try to rein it in, but please keep in mind that this will be a slave fic and there will be angst and pain. Also, if anyone has suggestions for a new title for this fic, I would be happy if you shared them because I'm not that happy with the current title.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Paris did was remove his brother's gag with his trembling fingers. Fumbling, struggling to undo the tight knots. Without anything preventing him of talking, Hector croaked out, "Paris?" in a weak, cracking voice. Paris had to jump to get to the rope tying Hector to the crossbeam but after a few tries, he grabbed the right end and yanked it hard. Without the bonds, Hector crumpled into Paris' outstretched arms like a marionette that had his strings cut, his weight bringing both of them down. Paris managed to take most of the impact, saving Hector from more pain, cradling Hector's head in his lap.

"Hector, oh my gods. What did they do to you? Shh, you're safe. You're fine. I've got you," Paris babbled, searching for words of comfort to calm himself more than Hector. After crooning to his brother for a while, Paris' tone grew more urgent, his words rushed and breathy, "Hector, are you strong enough to walk now? We must leave. We must leave now or else we risk being captured. Hector!" Paris hated to do it, but he drew his hand back and slapped his brother on the face.

Paris watched as his brother attempted to shake himself alert.

"Can you walk?"

Hector nodded weakly and, leaning heavily on Paris, attempted to stand upright. Seeing his brother's legs shake and his grimace of pain, Paris lost his firm resolve and pushed him back down. Paris was crushed when Hector wasn't able to offer any resistance. Instead he croaked, "Do you have water?" Paris shook his head regretfully. He took a closer look at his brother's split and bleeding lips.

"I'm sorry, Hector. We can get some once we get home," Paris gulped. _If we get home._ He shuddered at the thought of failure, "There is only one man on watch. He makes rounds every few minutes but mostly stays on the ravine. I was able to sneak past him but I don't know if a man in your condition can do the same. We could follow the shoreline to avoid him but it would lead us into Agamemnon's camp and he might have even more guards out. So I think we should chance the Myrmidon."

"Do you have your bow?"

"No, but I can do it," Paris couldn't stop a trace of childish petulance and resentment from creeping into his voice.

Hector seemed to sense these feelings and reassure Paris that he had never doubted him.

With a small smile, Paris said, "There is a small oasis a little way south from here. It is in the opposite direction of the palace but I have my horse stabled there. If we can get to there, we can go home." He gave a short laugh of relief, barely able to believe that his plan was going exactly how he had wanted it to.

Finally, Paris decided that no more time could be spared and he told Hector that they had to move.

* * *

Hector grabbed his brother's shoulder and slowly stood. When they made it outside, Hector reveled in the ocean breeze blowing on his hot, sweaty skin. At the sight of the stars, alive in their sparkle, he felt hope flare up inside of him. The small flame that he had quenched once Achilles had hung him up came back with a vengeance. Silently, he thanked the gods for sparing his life.

He could go home and hold Andromache, kiss his baby boy, watch him grow into a man. Things he had believe that he would never be able to do again.

As they were going by, Hector was suddenly struck by a thought. A theory that he had thought of during his long hours of bondage and had temporarily forgotten at the excitement of a rescue. He commanded, "Paris, look into this tent. What do you see?" While his brother got to his knees to lift the bottom folds of the tent, Hector stood in the darkness, scanning the beach with his keen eyes. Apparently seeing no danger, Paris walked into the tent.

"There are two men," came Paris' muffled whisper, "One looks ill and I believe that both are sleeping." Hector followed his brother inside and what he saw confirmed the suspicion that had been growing since he had tried to escape. The cousin of Achilles lay still, his skin an unhealthy pallor.

Hector's first thoughts were of regret and guilt. He hadn't known that he was fighting a boy. A boy no older than Paris. He should've known the boy was an imposter. The lord of the Myrmidons was famous throughout the world for his swordsmanship. As Hector reflected on the duel, he realized the supposed lord hadn't moved fast enough. There was little fluidity between bouts; each clash had sent the boy staggering backwards. The stances and techniques were textbook perfect; an experienced warrior would have twisted the form to suit himself. He would have improved the basic and made it unique and extraordinary. Many clear signs that the man in armor was not a warrior, let alone the great Achilles.

And now, he was close to death. Wasting away. And Hector would be his murderer. As much as Hector hated Achilles, he would never wish such pain on him. The horrible sense of helplessness and loss, much like the feelings that ran through Hector when he watched Paris fight Menelaus. He had cringed at every cry, every ring of sword against shield. Had to use all of his willpower to keep himself from running forth to help. Such pain should never be inflicted on anyone, Hector mused.

Hector's next thoughts were surprising in a way. Hector had always considered himself to be morally upright and did his best to remain so, even in times of war. So when he decided that they would take the dying boy as a hostage, he was breaking all of his guidelines. Guidelines that he had served and followed his whole life. But the commander and warrior side of him could only think of how to survive. Even at the sacrifice of a boy, a child, a brother, a husband. _Especially because Paris is with me_.

Paris asked what Hector was looking at and he responded, "Find rope to bind and gag both. Do you think you can carry the boy to your horse?" Hector's gentleman-side squirmed at the incredulous, disbelieving look on Paris' face. Paris nodded uneasily, too shocked to make a sound.

First, Paris searched the small room for a bow which he eventually found under a set of furs. He stepped outside after Hector took the proffered ropes. He stood over the man asleep on the floor. A young, handsome man. Only following orders. Hector couldn't bring himself to kill a blameless soldier.

Blameless? Was any man in this war blameless? All had killed. All had destroyed families and lives. So was anyone blameless? The king ordered his generals. The tacticians and commanders sent their soldiers into war. The soldiers killed to live. There was no way to escape blame.

Hector drew his fist back and struck down.

* * *

The bow sung to him. The curved wood gleamed in the moonlight, the string taut. Paris balanced the weapon on his palm and quickly tested it for flexibility, strength, power. One touch told him so much. He knew exactly how to shoot the bow as if it was written down for him. It was a fine bow, he marveled. He reached into the plain quiver, beautiful in its simplicity, and drew out an arrow.

Feathered at the end, metal at the tip, the arrow was an artisan's weapon. It took more than brute strength to wield. Taking the shaft into his hands almost reverently, he nocked the arrow. Inhaling deeply, he drew the string back in one fluid motion. His arms, trained to combat the rigidity of the bow, did not tremble. Staring down the slim length, one eye squeezed shut, Paris pushed the air from his lungs. And he let go.

What seemed like minutes later - but could only have been less than a second - he saw the silhouette of a man in the distance fall down, one hand grabbing at the slender shadow protruding from its head. With a surge of satisfaction, Paris grinned. A feral snarl of a smile graced his lips. It felt so right. The tension seemed to fly from his body, following the arrow. Tracing the wooden fibers, he felt strong, so powerful.

When he saw Hector, he nodded curtly, proudly noting the look of respect on his older brother's face. And it was not undeserved. Shooting with that level of accuracy at night and from over 300 meters away was not an easy feat. It had taken years to perfect his skills and instincts. Throughout his childhood, while people fawned over Hector's swordsmanship and ability with horses, Paris had become the best archer in the kingdom.

He hurried back inside, only sparing a glance for the fallen body on the ground. He slung the bow on his back, leaving both hands free to scoop up the young boy bridal-style, which he did without much trouble, surprised at how light and frail he was. Hector grabbed two swords and looked to Paris for direction. Paris surveyed the land and jut his chin to the direction from which he came. Hector led the way, Paris following behind, able to keep up with Hector even though he was carrying what he estimated to be about 200 minas of deadweight.

They kept to the dark side of the dune, moving as quickly as they dared. After only a few minutes, Paris was beginning to regret his decision to take the boy. His surprise at the boy's weight must have confused him because he had honestly believed that he could carry the boy all the way to his horse. His horse was about a league away. There was no way that he could do this.

But he had to. He couldn't back down now. He had said that he could do this. If he failed now... Paris didn't even want to think about it. He focused his eyes on the back of Hector's legs, trying to concentrate on each imprint of his brother's feet on the sand. Concentrate. Of course, forcing himself to concentrate on it did the exact opposite. His mind wandered.

Wandered back to that night. It was a happy night. His birthday. Apollo's day.

* * *

He was turning twelve. Father had invited many nobles as he did every year. It honored the sun god, he said. Without a large celebration, Apollo would be offended. All the gods needed gifts to appease them. Without presents, they would obliterate the world in their rage. The gods are not kind, Priam would say. They are not merciful or loving. We are only here to serve. To please.

Paris had hidden his disappointment. He had hoped to celebrate with his family. He hated being with the nobles because all they did was grovel and pretend to be his best friend. They were not his friends. He didn't want another special day to be ruined by them, turned into a public spectacle. He pretended that he was fine, put on a smile. But he wasn't fine. He didn't want to go to his birthday feast. Not even his. Apollo's. And no matter what his father said, Paris did not believe that the Gods were merciless. He did not believe that Apollo did not care about his subjects. But that was besides the point.

Hector must have seen. He had always been able to read Paris. Paris didn't know what happened afterwards. All he knew was that, come evening, Paris was having a quiet family dinner. Just him, his beloved brother and his father. Yes, Priam had grumbled at the beginning but after some reprimanding glances from Hector, he quieted and began to enjoy himself.

It was the best birthday Paris could remember. They stayed in the small room even after they finished their meal. Priam regaled them with stories from his childhood. Dramatic stories of childhood loves, warfare and politics that Paris was sure his father had exaggerated. But he hadn't said anything, basking in the warmth of his father's attention and care. Then Hector started. Daring, exciting, and sometimes funny tales of training and fighting.

Paris could remember every story. He spent all the night, staring at the ceiling, repeating the narrations to the darkness. Over and over again until he was sure that he would never forget them. His best birthday. If only things could only be as good as they were then.

* * *

I am so sorry about how late I left this, guys. It's been what, a month? If I said that I had finals, would anyone forgive me? Anyways, it's summer now so I will be spending a lot of time writing. Trust me. And thank you for the favorites, follows and reviews. They meant a lot to me. Love and kisses!


	5. Chapter 5

It was so dark. And even though Patroclus had never been afraid of the dark, he was terrified. It seemed like the emptiness was going to devour him; the dark like a cold, silent beast, just lying in wait to pounce. He was screaming at himself to move, to run away as far as he could. But he couldn't move at all. There was nothing wrong with him. At least, nothing that Patroclus could tell. But he still could not move. His body did not respond to him. And it scared him so much.

He was trapped on the floor and he could feel his chest heaving, hear his breath quickening and rasping in panic. He had to be hallucinating because he could swear he just saw the darkness move. Thin, winding tendrils twisted together, tendrils that were, if possible, even blacker than the inky blackness behind them. It crept towards him slowly, only prolonging what Patroclus knew in his heart to be a painful demise.

So close. Oh gods, it was so close. Get away now! Patroclus could feel cold fingers grabbing at his legs, trying to pull him in close. He strained against his invisible bonds desperately even though he knew it was futile. Then he could move. It came as such a surprise that for a moment Patroclus forgot why he had wanted to in the first place. By the time he looked back at the dark, it was already upon him and he was trying to scream.

* * *

Patroclus jumped up in his bed, chest heaving and slick with sweat. He threw off the light blanket on top of him, frantically patting at his torso and checking his body for any traces of injuries or shadows. There was nothing and he let out a huge sigh of relief. Everything had been a dream. Other than his rapidly beating heart, there was nothing wrong with him. But everything had seemed so real. When he was fighting the Trojan, the sword that had slashed him had looked so sharp and the pain! The pain had been agonizing; it was nothing like what Patroclus had expected. He remembered wishing for death as an escape. Thank the gods that it was but a dream.

He quickly dressed and went out of his tent. He was looking for Achilles to tell him about the wild dream when he noticed that the camp was silent and dark. The Grecian camp was never silent or dark. Even at the dead of night, when the night watch were almost asleep and at their breaking point, the camp was alive with sounds: multiple whispers from sleepless men bled together into a very gentle, never-ending buzz, the heavy snores of men lost in their dreams, the sharp cracks of embers rising from the fires and occasionally the soft clanking of armor being cleaned.

Patroclus made his way towards the biggest tent in the immediate area, hoping that his cousin was not away. The foreboding atmosphere of the camp scared him; he was looking for the comfort of his family. As he roughly shoved the flap aside, he was almost blinded by a flare of light shooting out from a fire in the tent.

Throwing an arm in front of his face as his eyes adjusted, he noticed a still figure sitting on Achilles' bed. A strong, sturdy shadow that could only belong to one person. Patroclus gave a little bow at the sight of his cousin and when he gave no response, Patroclus walked toward the bed. He sat down and took Achilles' strong hands into his own. They were cold and clammy, not the hands of a healthy warrior.

"Achilles? What are you doing? Where is everyone? Achilles!" In his fear, Patroclus fell back to childish whining, his tone was one of a spoiled prince. When no reply came, he reached for the still shoulder. Then Achilles moved. He swiveled around slowly to look at Patroclus. And that look froze Patroclus, striking fear into his heart, fear greater than any he had felt before. It was the worst look you could receive from a loved one. A horrible mixture of disgust and disappointment. That look made Patroclus want to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness, apologize for whatever he had done wrong.

But he just sat there, staring at his cousin, unable to make a sound.

"Patroclus. You should have stayed. Again and again. You always find a way to ruin everything!" The quiet rebuke quickly turned into a venomous hiss that sent Patroclus cowering in fear.

Trying to stay away from his cousin, Patroclus edged out of the tent as fast as he could, desperate to escape the oppressive, dark atmosphere that Achilles' black mood created. He ran towards the waves, ignoring the loud yells that demanded him to come back, to stop being such a coward. Stand for your wrongs as befitting of a man! The cries echoed in his head as he entered the white, foaming surf. He walked further into the water, despite the fact that he could barely swim. When the gently lapping ripples slapped his face, he pushed forward off the sandy bottom, intending to fling himself to oblivion. He fell into a raging storm. Gentle became fierce. His body was being pummeled from all sides, thrown around like a dirty rag.

And he realized he didn't want to die.

He fought furiously but to no avail; the sea was not willing to give up its latest victim and it held him tightly. Sinking below the surface, Patroclus tried to beat his legs through the water, his efforts slowed and sluggish from being underwater. Panic overtook him when he couldn't make it up; he knew that he was going to die.

It will be so much easier to let go. After a little bit, there will be no more pain. You will be at peace. Safe at rest. And so he relaxed. He stopped fighting and twisted along with the water, letting it wrap around him like a blanket. Letting it rock him back and forth and back and forth.

* * *

Back and forth. Almost as if he was in a cradle. His mother rocking him when he was a baby. Patroclus stirred, his vision blurred and dark. This wasn't real, was it? Why couldn't he see? Was he blind? He opened his mouth to cry out for help but all that came out was a weak groan.

"He's coming to, brother."

"Stop, Paris. We will not harm him while he is of no threat to us."

"Look at you! You were close to death when I found you and he's the reason why. If it weren't for this bastard, you would never be here! If we don't silence him, he will draw attention to us and in your state, fighting anyone is not an option. So don't get in my way and do not tell me what to do!"

Paris' brother, Prince Hector, seemed to scoff and told his younger brother that he had never been close to death. Patroclus started as Prince Hector spoke right next to his ear, "Will you scream if I do not gag you?"

Patroclus cleared his throat a few times, trying to gather enough spit in his mouth to make his voice strong. He tried to keep his countenance calm and resolute and his voice from quavering as he asked, "What will you do to me if I do?"

"You need not worry," Prince Hector reassured him, "We are not in the habit of killing the helpless young. However, I would have to silence you by force. It would not be pleasant." The prince gave a small laugh devoid of any amusement.

"That is not necessary. I agree to comply with your demands and in-"

"You agree to comply?!" The other prince scoffed, his voice coarse and loud compared to Prince Hector's gentle tones. He stomped towards Patroclus who was tied facedown on a horse's back and completely vulnerable to anything Paris could do to him. He jabbed Patroclus hard on the side, making the injured man wince in pain, desperately praying that the others didn't notice, "_You_ are not in any kind of position to _agree_ to anything. We are your _captors_. Keep that in mind when you think of doing anything stupid. If it weren't for my brother, I would have you ca-"

"Paris, please," Hector's voice was tinged with irritation and Patroclus couldn't help but gloat at least a little as Paris fell into a sullen silence. And so their little party traveled on. In a tense, gloomy silence broken only by the occasional clacks of hoof striking rock. And now that he was without disruptions, Patroclus could only think about an escape and how impossible it would be.

* * *

Hector was impressed. The boy had maintained his dignity throughout their journey. He showed no weakness, no terror. Truly the cousin of Achilles. But now he was worried for the boy. He was obviously in pain, letting out very soft gasps whenever the horse's gait became uneven. Hector sincerely wished that they could slow down and let the poor lad rest but there was no way that was going to happen. Achilles could be tracking them right now with his band of Myrmidons and at the rate that they were going they would have no chance. So the boy would have to find a way to deal with his pain.

Hector looked away from him and turned to Paris. Or rather, to Paris' straight back since the younger prince was stalking ahead of him. No doubt he was still offended. His shoulders were drawn up and his neck held stiff in indignation. Hector really should not have rebuked him in front of the other boy. But, Hector thought fiercely, Paris should not have been acting like such a child!

Sighing, he turned his attention back to his captive. He didn't think that the boy was still conscious so he was surprised when he asked, "What are you doing?"

Hector almost giggled at the absurdity of the question. Then the smile quickly deflated as he suddenly remembered that the boy had no idea what had been happening for the last few days. And it was his fault.

"What's the last thing you remember, boy?"

"My name is Patroclus," the boy said in a slightly offended tone. He fell silent for a while, thinking, "I remember… I think that I was leading my – the Myrmidons to battle. The Trojans were coming but Achilles didn't want the men to fight. I led them into battle against his will. Oh gods, he is going to kill me! What do I do?"

Hector smiled. Despite the boy's supposed maturity, he really was just a child. Desperate for approval and too disobedient for his own good. "Do you not remember anything about the battle?" The boy replied that he had not and Hector decided to tell him everything. Well, anything that could explain the situation they were in currently. He wasn't sure that the boy would keep his promise to be quiet if he found out the truth.

"I led the attack on the beach. During the fighting, you must have been injured. Achilles must have noticed you were missing and he came to find you. Once he joined the fight, I ordered my men to retreat. My men made it but I was not as lucky. I fought your cousin and he won. After a day had passed, my brother came for me."

"How do you know that Achilles is my cousin? It is a fact that we did not advertise to many."

_Because your cousin's faithful general told me after I cut you down._ "While I was captive, I heard some men speak of your cousin's worry for you. The whole camp was praying that you would make it. And even if I didn't overhear the soldiers, it wouldn't have been impossible to guess. He obviously cares about you more than anything."

That brought a small smile to the boy's face. "Do you know what's wrong with me?"

"You were fighting one of my men and he laid your chest open. At the camp, I heard you had a horrible fever and your wound was festering from the heat. Does it hurt?"

"Hardly," the boy hung his head, in shame or fatigue, Hector did not know.

Hector tried to not sound pitying or consoling as he continued his story. The boy didn't need to be ashamed of himself. "I was nearby when you were dueling my man. I was surprised you held up for so long. He is one of the most skilled men in my regiment. It was quite the battle. He was probably twice your weight! He could have probably killed you by falling on top of you!" Hector let out a delighted laugh as he created this giant, infallible character.

The boy gave a half-hearted chuckle and then proceeded to kill the light mood, "Are you going to kill me?"

"No! What gave you that idea?"  
No answer.

"Boy –"

"My name is Patroclus."

"Boy. Once we get to the city, you're free to go. Don't make any trouble until then and we should be fine. Understand?" When the boy didn't confirm, Hector could feel all of his patience leaking out of him.

"Boy!"

"Patroclus! Fuck! Paris!"

* * *

Paris was still upset. How dare Hector, _his_ brother, take the side of a Greek? _I should have just left him in the camp for a few days. Teach him a lesson. He acts like he doesn't need me. Without me, he would still be tied up! _He snuck a quick look back at Hector and the Greek. And now they were talking. Like friends.

In his anger, Paris was horribly disgusted by his brother. Always making peace and befriending the little people. Always stopping in the streets to give alms to beggars. Always helping the servants in the palace. It had always annoyed Paris but this time it was beyond infuriating.

He directed his anger towards the small rocks in his way. Angling his foot sideways, he made sure to kick the stones with the sole of his sandal. No point in injuring himself. He could still feel a small sting through the thin sole as he punted rock after rock as hard as he could, imagining Hector's face being battered to pieces.

He was snapped out of his fantasy by Hector shouting for him. He sauntered over to the pair slowly, making it clear that he was not to be called back and forth like a hound. A quick flash of exasperation crossed Hector's features making Paris quiver before he reminded himself of his own unhappiness with his sibling.

"Why are you stopping?" Paris demanded as he marched over to Hector.

"Paris, he lost consciousness. We need to get him down right now."

When Paris didn't move, Hector took it into his own hands to untie the knots holding the prisoner's limp form to the horse. He laid the prisoner on the sand and started to tear off his tunic. Even in the dim light of the rising sun, Paris could see the dark stain of blood, spread wide over the cloth bandage wrapped around the prisoner's chest. Hector reached over and ripped a strip off of Paris' shirt, ignoring Paris' cry of protest. Paris sat back and glared at his brother. Showing so much care for a Greek.

"Hector, let's just go. I can see the palace from here!" Well, a very far-away block from here. Hector ignored Paris and kept on bandaging the prisoner's wounds. Then, Paris turned around. A small group of riders, kicking up vast amounts of dust. Heading straight for them.

"Oh fuck."

* * *

I am sorry it's been so long. This chapter was really hard for me to write. I just had no idea what was happening in my brain. I'm not that satisfied with this chapter but please bear with me. Thanks for reading!


End file.
